Billionaire Fiancés Box Set

by Rachel Lyndhurst; Carmen Falcone; Ros Clarke; Annie Seaton; Christine Bell

  “I’m sorry,” she said, after she’d drunk half the glass. “I wasn’t thinking. Did I hurt you?”

  “I’m taking so many painkillers that I wouldn’t notice.”

  “Oh. Should you be drinking that wine, by the way?”

  “Yes,” he replied firmly, and reached for the bottle to replenish his glass and hers.

  “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  He shrugged. “I feel fine. It might make me sleep better.”

  “Not the wine. Though two glasses is more than enough.” She moved the bottle out of his reach. “This. Put your shirt back on.”

  He held up the crumpled fabric. “Do I have to?”

  “I told you this morning. We have to stop pretending this is any kind of marriage at all.”

  She edged away from him on the sofa. Emile cursed his foot that wouldn’t let him slide towards her. “We aren’t pretending, Thérèse. Wasn’t that the whole point?”

  “Yes, but there’s nothing to be done until next October. I’ll sort it all out then, as we planned, don’t worry. In fact, if we aren’t having sex, it will be much easier, because we can claim adultery.”

  “Claim it?” He frowned. “What on earth does that mean?”

  “You can’t divorce on the grounds of adultery if you’re still having sex together, even if one of you is shagging someone else on the side. But this way, it’ll be easy. I’ll do it, if you prefer. Though that means you’ll technically have to be the one to file. I’ll do the paperwork for you, though.”

  He caught hold of her hand. “Chérie, you are babbling nonsense. I think perhaps you have drunk too much wine and not eaten enough dinner. Shall I order the moules frites again? Or perhaps a steak?”

  She pulled her hand away, poured another glass of wine, and stood up to pace around the room. “We could always go for unreasonable behavior. So long as it’s uncontested, they don’t take much notice of what you say. I expect I could think of some of your behavior that would qualify as unreasonable. Or you could list mine.”

  Emile folded his arms over his chest and watched her. She’d almost forgotten he was in the room. He could imagine her like this at work, carefully assessing options, thinking through possible scenarios, talking people around without them even noticing. No wonder she often forgot to eat lunch, getting carried away with what she was doing. She needed someone to remind her to stop once in a while. To eat a sandwich, take a break, have some fun. He liked doing that for her.

  “What do you think?” She was looking at him, eyebrow raised in question.

  Emile shook his head. “Whatever you prefer.” He didn’t care about the damned divorce. She was the one who knew about the legal stuff, and he trusted her to arrange things.

  “Chinese food, then.” She pulled out the menu from the pile he kept on the mantelpiece. “Chili beef for me. You?”

  They were discussing takeaway food now? How had that happened? He ran a hand over his face and attempted to get his brain working again.

  Theresa was still waiting for an answer. “Um, kung po chicken.”

  “Rice? Prawn crackers?”

  “Pork balls. And seaweed.”

  “You know, in China they use actual seaweed.”

  “Not here?”

  “Not usually. Cabbage.”

  “Disappointing.”

  “I know.”

  She picked up the phone and ordered the food.

  “I can’t stay long after dinner,” she warned him when she put the phone down. “I’ve got to be back in the office tomorrow and there are a couple of things I need to look at tonight.”

  “Fetch your things and stay here?” He knew he would be fine without her. It was only one broken toe, after all, and he could hop anywhere he needed to. But damn, he wanted her lying in the bed next to him tonight.

  “I’m tired and it’s a lot of hassle.”

  “Right. I hadn’t thought about that.” It had been a long day for both of them. “Stay here and pick up your things in the morning.”

  She shook her head. “There isn’t a spare bed.”

  “A spare bed?” What the hell would he need another bed for? And why would she even care?

  “Emile, we just agreed that we won’t be sleeping together again.”

  “What?” There was no way he’d agreed to that. “I must have been asleep. Or drugged, or something.”

  She laughed. “No, you were awake. I checked. But it looks like those painkillers are doing their stuff. We’d better discuss it tomorrow when you’re capable of remembering a whole conversation.”

  That would not be up for discussion. Not with words, at any rate. But for tonight, he just needed her to stay with him. He needed to believe that she cared enough to stay.

  “Emile?”

  He rubbed a hand over his face. “Hmm?”

  Theresa was looking down at him anxiously. “Right, that’s it. You’re going to bed now. Can you stand up?” She helped him balance as he levered his foot to the floor, then took his weight on the other leg. “Crutches?”

  “No. You help me.”

  He put his arm around her shoulders, and she held on to his waist, supporting him while he hopped to the bathroom and then the bedroom. She stripped him efficiently and settled him under the covers with an extra pillow beneath his foot.

  “Comfortable?”

  “I’ll live.”

  “Yes, but will you sleep?”

  He managed a lazy smile. “Only with you.”

  She put her hands on her hips and sighed. He waited. “Fine. But I’ll need to leave early in the morning.”

  “I know.”

  “And I really do need to go and check a couple of things on my laptop now.”

  He caught her wrist and pulled her to sit beside him. “Thanks for being here today.”

  She nodded. “It’s okay.”

  “Kiss me goodnight?”

  She leaned down and put her lips to his cheek. Emile slid his hand against her head and turned, so that their mouths met. He didn’t push for more, just let his eyes drift closed until he slept.

  Chapter Nine

  The agency nurse she’d arranged last night arrived promptly at seven. Short, with curly blonde hair, vivid blue eyes, and a bosom that rivaled Dolly Parton’s, she looked as though she had just stepped off the set of a Carry On film.

  Theresa showed her around the flat then went to check on Emile one last time.

  He slept on his back, with his head turned against the pillow. She brushed the hair back from his forehead gently, then bent to press a soft kiss on his temple. She checked the pillow under his foot and smoothed down the duvet. He looked strangely vulnerable. Her heart protested a little at the idea of leaving him alone like this.

  Not alone, her head pointed out. He had Ivonna, who was infinitely more competent in a sick room than Theresa would ever be. And besides, she really had to get back to work. She’d texted her assistant to say she would be in late, but by the time she’d gone home, changed, and picked up her things, half the morning would be gone.

  The first text came through just before lunch.

  How did you know?

  She frowned.

  Know what?

  My fantasy about a nurse in a uniform that doesn’t fit.

  She rolled her eyes.

  Ivonna’s uniform fits.

  Not when she’s leaning over to arrange my pillows.

  He was incorrigible.

  I hope that’s keeping you entertained.

  It would be easier to phone him, but this way she could at least pretend to be concentrating on her work between texts. She put her phone in her bag and forced herself to ignore it for half an hour. When she’d finished the next stack of papers, she picked it up and checked his message.

  Not as much as you in a nurse’s uniform would.

  She let out a shocked laugh. Her assistant looked across, but Theresa shook her head and put the phone down. She couldn’t be having this conversation in her
office. She’d just reply one more time to make sure he got the message.

  That one is going to stay strictly fantasy.

  He didn’t reply straightaway, so she picked up the contract she was working through and tried to remember where she was up to. It was complicated, and normally, she’d find it absorbing. This afternoon, however, she couldn’t stop checking her phone. When it eventually buzzed, she dropped her pencil and then banged her head on the desk as she bent to pick it up. God, she was pathetic. Like a teenager desperately hanging on every scrap of attention the good-looking boy in class deigned to throw her way.

  We could play lawyer and client if you prefer.

  Oh God, she was sure she’d blushed red-hot and hoped fervently that no one would come into her office until she’d got herself under control. She’d never be able to work again. Not now she’d be imagining Emile lounging in the chair on the other side of the desk, giving her that crooked little smile that signaled his mind was busy undressing her. She did her best to force that image from her brain and sent him a text that she hoped would put an end to his flirting for the rest of the afternoon.

  I would prefer not to be continually interrupted by inane messages while I am at work.

  Then you should have stayed at home. Have you remembered to eat something today?

  Maybe she should have stayed at his flat. An afternoon in Emile’s apartment sounded infinitely more appealing than working her way through the stack of EU directives on her desk. They’d sprawl over his vast sofas, maybe laughing at an old movie together or bickering over something trivial just for the fun of it. At some point, laughing and bickering would converge, as they always seemed to, and then there’d be that delicious moment when the atmosphere changed. They’d move closer together, he’d slide his hand into her hair, or she’d slip hers underneath his shirt. They’d forget whatever they’d been disagreeing about and then they’d forget everything except the intensity of the present moment.

  God, she was hopeless. She switched off her mobile and dumped it into her bag. For approximately ten seconds, she managed to concentrate on the contract she was supposed to be assessing for EU compliance. Then she started wondering what innuendo Emile would read into EU compliance and all hope of concentration was blown.

  With a loud sigh, she pushed her chair away from her desk.

  “I’m finishing early,” she told her assistant. “I’ll take the rest of these home with me.”

  …

  It felt damned good to get out of his apartment. The doctor had been pleased with his progress this morning and given Emile the nod to start putting some weight back on his foot. It was the first tiny step towards recovery. So he’d called Raf to celebrate, and now they were comfortably settled in the worn leather chairs of the Munroe, his favorite London bar.

  He’d texted Theresa, telling her to join them when she finished work. That was going well, too. She was spending more nights than not at his apartment, and somehow they’d worked out how to have actual conversations without too much bickering or flirting. And she hadn’t mentioned that damned pre-nup once since he’d come out of hospital.

  His leg was comfortably propped up on a low table and he’d given a substantial tip to a pretty blonde waitress who was keeping them well-supplied. Raf had brought a couple of the other guys from the club along. One of them had produced a pack of cards, so now they were halfway through a semi-serious game of poker.

  Emile checked his hand. Kings over nines. He chucked another fifty in the pot. Raf shook his head and threw his cards on the table. Jimmy shot Emile a shrewd glance.

  “I’ll see you.”

  He laid the cards down. Jimmy sighed loudly and chucked his hand on the table. “One day I’ll learn.”

  Emile gathered up his winnings and signaled to the waitress. “Bring us another round.”

  He was on mineral water out of deference to the strength of his painkillers. So he couldn’t be seeing things. Which meant that coming towards him, concern plastered all over her face as if she’d painted it on with a trowel, was Prada.

  “Emile!” she squealed.

  He shuddered and muttered to Raf, “Protect me.”

  “Oh, darling, I was devastated to see you’d hurt yourself.” She slid between the chairs and perched on the edge of the low table, giving him a perfect view down her cleavage.

  What had he ever found attractive about this woman? Everything about Prada was fake—her tan, her tits, and even her name.

  “I’m fine.”

  But she was cooing and sighing, petting his bandaged foot and then turning baby-wide eyes on him. “Poor darling. How can I make it better?” She leaned forward, pursing her lips, ready for a kiss.

  Emile flinched and ducked his head out of the way just in time. But Prada was persistent. She launched herself into his lap and curled her hand around his neck, pulling his face back towards hers.

  “Isn’t that better, darling?”

  “Yes, darling. Isn’t that better?”

  Thérèse. In ice-cool lawyer mode. Thank God. Emile smiled at her with relief. Raf had been useless at protecting him from Prada, but he was certain that Theresa would be well up to the task, except she wasn’t looking at Prada. Her eyes were cool with disappointment, and they were focused wholly on him. He pushed Prada’s hand away.

  “You’re supposed to be resting. Remember what the doctor said,” Theresa said.

  He shrugged. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I can see that,” she said with a pointed glance in Prada’s direction. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

  He hadn’t guessed that she’d be jealous for him, and even though there was no reason for it, he rather liked it. He patted Prada’s thigh. Theresa bristled visibly. Emile bit back his smile.

  “Prada was just commiserating on my injuries. Off you go now, sweet.”

  Theresa’s eyes rolled at the endearment but she didn’t say anything until he’d levered Prada off his lap and sent her reluctantly in search of other prey.

  Emile patted the arm of his chair. “Come and sit down.”

  She didn’t move. Instead, she glanced round at the others, taking in the remnants of their poker game on the table.

  “Want to play?” he said. He’d bet she was brilliant at poker. She could hide anything behind that cool, professional facade.

  “No, thanks. I assume you’ll be okay to get home by yourself.” She nodded towards the crutches that lay by Emile’s chair. One of the other guys laughed. Emile’s lips twisted. Had she forgotten that she was supposed to be his wife? She couldn’t just walk out on him in front of the guys.

  “I would prefer not to.” He gave her a slow smile and held out his hand. “Thérèse?”

  “I have work that I need to do.” She indicated her briefcase. “I’m going.”

  What the hell was she playing at? Why come if she was just going straight home? Hell, she was already halfway to the door by the time he’d levered himself upright on his good foot. With one crutch and the other hand free to balance against chairs and walls, he went after her.

  …

  “Wait.” Emile’s voice came from behind her.

  She stopped walking but she didn’t turn to face him. There wasn’t any point. Her response to Prada had been totally irrational. She knew that. She knew it, and yet, she couldn’t stop the surge of jealousy when she’d seen another woman sprawled over Emile’s lap.

  “What is the matter with you?” he said in a savage whisper that sent shivers through her.

  She spun round, finding his face just inches from hers and etched with fury she’d not known he was capable of. “What is the matter with me?”

  “Walking out. Showing me up like that.”

  Of course he’d care about what his mates thought. Not how he’d made her feel. “I wasn’t the one with another woman plastered all over me.”

  He slashed his free hand through the air, dismissing Prada with the gesture. “They know Prada. They know she is nothing to me.”
<
br />   “Does Prada know that?”

  He shrugged. “We are married. She will have to learn.”

  “By crawling into your lap and kissing you? Great way to teach her a lesson, Emile.”

  “It wasn’t like that. Look, just come and have a drink, then we’ll go home.”

  “We won’t be going anywhere,” she said with heavy emphasis. “I have work to do.”

  “How convenient for you,” he snarled. “There’s always work to hide behind, isn’t there?”

  “My career is important to me.”

  Emile gripped her arms and leaned down to her, his breath warm on her face. “So is mine,” he bit out through gritted teeth.

  She jerked out of his grasp, needing to put air between them. “It’s hard to believe that, if this is any indication.” She gestured towards the table where his friends were still sitting.

  “What the hell? One game of poker? I suppose you think I shouldn’t have any fun at all.”

  She shook her head. That wasn’t what she meant, but it had just hit home—again—how different his world was from hers. Those were fifty pound notes piling up in the center of the table. God knows how much money he’d throw away on the turn of a card.

  “It’s none of my business.”

  “Damned right, it isn’t.” That had never been part of the bargain, that they’d criticize each other’s behavior.

  “But since you ask, I don’t approve of your drinking while you’re still taking the medication drugs.” She her hands on her hips and faced him down.

  “As you pointed out, that’s none of your business. I don’t have to answer to you.”

  “And I don’t have to stay and watch you sabotage yourself like this.”

  She bent to pick up her bag and leave, only to find her way barred by Emile’s crutch.

  “As it happens,” he hissed so that only she could hear. “I don’t want you to, because I’m having fun, Thérèse. Or at least I was until you arrived.”

  And that was the point. She was the one who spoiled the fun. He didn’t need someone like her around.

  “Then, I guess I’ll be in touch next October. Goodbye, Emile.”

  She made it out of the club and around the corner into one of London’s blessedly anonymous streets where people walked past each other without ever looking to see if there was agony on someone’s face.